


Kill la Killchemy

by orphan_account



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga, Kill la Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crossover, Crossover, GC can't fucking believe., Gen, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 10:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1301956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Führer, perched in a massive chair reminiscent of a throne in all but name, glared at the young boy who stood in the centre of the spacious auditorium, the floor crafted of a cement ideal for drawing with chalk. To either side waited armed guards in the event that the worst would come. Swallowing, cheeks already flushed with humiliation, the boy sliced his hand on the blade at his right wrist. Bright lights flashed as scarlet threads wound over his form.</p><p>The resultant uniform,  black and red and thoroughly spiked with the worst aesthetic humanly possible, barely clothed his crotch and nipples.</p><p>“I never knew you such an exhibitionist.” The Führer chuckled at the boy’s scarlet face. “Well, reveal yourself to me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kill la Killchemy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: "fma au in which everything is the same except alchemists wear kamui from klk". I can't believe I wrote this. The document is currently saved as "KILL LA KILL I CANNOT BELIEVE.doc".
> 
> Note that this is not meant to make fun of guys who crossdress; it's more of a case of "holy shit I'm naked except for my netherland and nipnops", as my friend FKC so eloquently put. I simply emulated Ryuuko and Satsuki's reactions here.
> 
> Unedited/unbeta'd/etc. Enjoy . . . if you get enjoyment out of this.

The Führer, perched in a massive chair reminiscent of a throne in all but name, glared at the young boy who stood in the centre of the spacious auditorium, the floor crafted of a cement ideal for drawing with chalk. To either side waited armed guards in the event that the worst would come. Swallowing, cheeks already flushed with humiliation, the boy sliced his hand on the blade at his right wrist. Brights lights flashed as scarlet threads wound over his form.

The resultant uniform,  black and red and thoroughly spiked with the worst aesthetic humanly possible, _barely_ clothed his crotch and nipples.

“I never knew you such an exhibitionist.” The Führer chuckled at the boy’s scarlet face. “Well, reveal yourself to me.”

The scissor blade twirled towards the Führer throat before the guards could react; the tip sliced free, as if lopped off by a sharper sword, and the attendants burst out in yells of extreme panic.

Chest heaving and miniskirt fluttering, the boy panted heavily. His eyes had narrowed down to slits of luminous gold, like miniature suns, daring whatever Icaruses lurked in the shadows to come at him.

“Ah. I see. Well, then, Edward Elric, come by in a week’s time exactly to receive your results.” The Führer nodded—the observers snapped to salutes—and left.

After a moment of bustling activity punctuated with an awkward silence or two, Lieutenant Colonel Mustang cleared his throat. “You can return your kamui to its usual form now.”

Edward’s embarrassment deepened to almost a vermillion hue, as if the colour of his scarlet life fibres had woven into his cheeks. “Shut the fuck up.”

Mustang snickered into his fist. “Ahem. Are you having issues, Mr Elric? Don’t you know how to control your kamui?” He clapped his right hand into his other palm. “Still too new to control your embarrassment?”

“. . . _shut up_. I’d like to see _you_ running around in these damn high heels.”

He elevated an inquisitive eyebrow. “My, my, but you’re not my type. Lieutenant?”

Hawkeye saluted. “Yes, sir? And if I may compliment you in advance on your heels? They truly pronounce the form and fashion of your legs, sir, as long and slender as they are.”

The man and the boy exchanged glances of solidarity. Hawkeye smiled pleasantly.

 

At least in the kamui Ed towered over Winry. Winry claimed it didn’t count but asked him to wear the kamui more often anyway. Especially whenever she had a sketchbook in hand.

 

Maes Hughes took the microphone in hand and crooned of his daughter’s second birthday, much to the distaste of a crowd gathered to watch two nearly naked men beat the everloving shit out of one another. From outside of the makeshift rope barrier around the wrestling pit, Rebecca Catalina nudged Riza Hawkeye in the ribs. “I can see why you’d follow _him_ to hell.”

Hawkeye hmphed. Nevertheless her gaze seemed to glue itself, unbidden, to the fight: rippling muscles glistening with sweat, abdominals defined and chiselled as a marble statue from an ancient Xerxian fortress; she traced the delicious curve between hip and torso, keeping her eyes on the prize.

“At this rate, we’re all going to hell,” Hughes put in smoothly. “Shame there aren’t more female State Alchemists, eh, Becca?”

Catalina snorted. “‘Ey, I see you eyeing your best friend and that what’s-his-face as much as anyone else here, Mr Mae I Call You Out On Your Hypocrisy, by the way. _Bi_ the way, with an _I_. Get it?”

His hand flew to his chest in mock offense. “I’m a married man! How wounded must you make me!” Hawkeye and Catalina chuckled, and Hughes grinned. “Besides, Gracia’s here, too. Who the hell _wouldn’t_ be here?”

When one of the alchemists kicked up a dust storm that rolled over the battlefield, the masses screamed profanities, Hughes and Hawkeye _boo_ ing most loudly of them all.

 

Sparkles flashed in spinning crackles of pink and yellow lightning that hit the spotlight onto bulging muscles that nearly _glowed_ as though peppered with tiny stars. “ _This kamui has been passed down the Armstrong line for generations!_ ”

“Does he always do that?” Chief Fullmetal hissed to Havoc, who shrugged, juggling his cigar to the corner of his mouth to speak. “He’s not even doing any alchemy!”

“Didn’t you hear him?” Havoc clapped the boy on the shoulder. “The technique has been passed down the Armstrongs for generations, or somethin’. I dunno. I dated an Armstrong once; girl tossed a goddamn piano at me."

Major Armstrong had by this point turned around to face them, his ass cheeks no longer hanging in their faces but his clearly outlined groin now fully in view. The ensemble completed by the prominent Armstrong family crest emblazoned across his crotch, the mustachioed alchemist beamed at the trio. Chief Fullmetal’s brother made a faint noise; Havoc glanced at the pair while Major Armstrong announced his delight to see the new State Alchemist in the flesh.

Hawkeye had mentioned the chief’s tendency to spontaneously transmute his face into a tomato, and damn, she was right. “Hey! Can’t wait to see what _you_ look like in yours, Chief.”

 

Hughes flipped through the notebook and tapped his pen on the last marked page. Glasses reflective in the dim light, he raised his chin to look up at the Flame Alchemist, white gloves the sole light in the shadowed office. From outside the window thunder flashed, briefly illuminating the torrential downpour, before the clouds closed over again, tight and heavy. “Mustang. I’m asking you as a friend. Be careful.”

Mustang inclined his head. “Don’t worry. What does the fugitive look like?”

The lieutenant colonel circled the sketch on the notepad. “Dark skin, white hair, shades. We suspect he’s of Ishvalan origin, so red eyes are a likely possibility as well. A prominent X-shaped scar across his face.” Without altering his expression, he continued: “A pink and red miniskirt kamui with X-crossed bars over his nipples, and six-inch heels.”

Mustang’s eyebrows vanished somewhere into his hairline. “Truth help us all.”

 

Snow drifted in heavy sheets of sluice when the train engineer took notice of the raging noises threatening to thunder through the cargo hold. Frowning, he asked the second-in-command to take over for a moment while he examined the cargo.

He entered the hatch. An explosion nearly rocked from his feet; as he scrambled to his feet, he focused his gaze on the men duking it out directly in front of him. The first dressed in a tight pink skirt with red gloves from his shoulders to his fingertips inscribed with a variety of symbols. The second sporting a white chainmail bikini bottom and nothing above crotch level except for a flaring white scarf that somehow wrapped around his shoulders to give that look of a sultry dame; the twin phallic spikes arching above his shoulders blazed with a pair of arrays, one of the moon, the other of the sun, both sporting distinctly breast-like symbols above and below the transmutation arrays.

When the man in the pink skirt stabbed the man in the white bikini bottom with a _clearly_ and _equally_ phallic sword, the man in the white bikini bottom replied with a euphoric moan bordering on the orgasmic.

The train engineer stared for a lengthy minute prior to turning around on the spot and yelling at that second in command of his.

“God _dammit_ Jacques! I thought I told you not to let me drunk on the job!”

The man in the chainmail blinked innocently at the train engineer; then a smile, warm and bright, slowly crept onto his face. “Ho, my, _my_ ,” he said levelly. “Fresh meat.”

 

By the Promised Day winter sunk into the ground and summer had risen into the brightening sky, and the Elric brothers found themselves unfortunate enough to meet their absentee father over again. Van Hohenheim barely possessed time to apologise before the universe thrust into the belly of the beast. Or at least the belly of the underground sewers that led to Father’s domain concealed deep beneath the headquarters of the Amestrisian military.

Father stood from his throne and cast off the white robe that cloaked his crumbling body as he transmuted himself into youth and vigor, and into a blinding silver kamui fit for a warrior king. Al, Ed, Mustang, Izumi, and van Hohenheim switched to their kamui at once in a quintet of scarlet bursts of light.

Ed grimaced, shielding his eyes with an uplifted while Al reverbed in an emulation of an exasperated sigh. “Last thing I needed to see. My shit of a dad half naked. _Really_ high on my bucket list, that.”

Van Hohenheim looked down and laughed at the glorious gold loops around his chest and hips. Two censor bars reminiscent of hoops earrings held together by suspenders. “S’pose I’ve really let myself go, haven’t I?”

“Boys, is this _really_ the time?” Izumi snapped, her gaze cast towards the Dwarf in the Flask, who sported an identical pair of golden loops, only even thinner.

“You’re _enjoying_ this!” Ed snarled. And unfairly, too, given how comparatively conservative Izumi’s kamui—which she had alchemised herself—proved.

Izumi glared. “I’m _married_.”

Mustang cleared his throat loudly. “Can we get a move on? Because unfortunately, I _can’t_ enjoy the show.” Attempting to cross his arms, he stumbled; Izumi caught him by the wrist. “So the sooner we end it, the sooner this nightmare can be over.”

“Well, then,” Izumi responded, determination creeping back into her voice, “I’ll just have to drink it in while we kick his bearded ass.”

Ed flailed his limbs. “I thought you said you were _married_!”

“Ed, you’re underage. I’m talking about Roy and Hohenheim here.” Izumi sneered. “But I think the main attraction just fled aboveground. C’mon.”

“We’re kicking his ass?” Ed punched his palm with his right fist.

Al flashed him a thumbs up. “Yes, Brother, we’re kicking his naked ass.”

“Fantastic. Let’s get started.”

 

Father went down kicking and screaming in a white blanket. Blood dripping from cuts on his face, skin screeching in agony from the rusting automail port in his right shoulder, Ed ground his six-inch heel in the ground and punched the fucking bastard in the fucking face until the Dwarf in the Flask shattered under his fist for everything the homunculus had done.

He wiped the blood from his mouth with his arm; the motion snapped the straps against his chest, and he barely winced. Instead, skirts rustling, he knelt in the ground.

For his last and greatest transmutation.

 

His days as an alchemist long since past—and he would never _ever_ regret giving it up for his brother; in fact he’d been prepared to give up his entire world, and thus the Truth requesting nothing but his alchemy had prompted a begrudging gratitude—Edward Elric never put on a kamui again. But _much_ to the universe’s delight, he did wear dresses, on occasion. And skirts. And heels.

He’d saved the world and more importantly he’d saved his brother. Really, was there anything he _couldn’t_ do?

 


End file.
